


Devil's Trill

by Felgia_Starr, NuclearNik



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brutal Murder, Co-Written, Dark Arts, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Hermione Granger, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Prompt Fic, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Valentine's Day, Violinist Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-23 09:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felgia_Starr/pseuds/Felgia_Starr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/pseuds/NuclearNik
Summary: When fate makes her plans, sometimes all you can do is buckle in and get ready for the ride.





	Devil's Trill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round 3 of the Dramione Fanfiction Writers Triwizard Tournament  
> Title is from Devil's Trill Sonata by Giuseppe Tartini. Go have a listen!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to **ravenslight** for taking the time to beta this little piece!
> 
> Disclaimer: We do not own any part of the Harry Potter Franchise

_ _

* * *

  **O B S E S S I O N**

 _an **idea** or **thought** that **continually preoccupies** or **intrudes** on a person's _ _mind_

* * *

Draco was a lucky man, never more so than when he watched the witch that fate had gifted him come undone under his hands. If someone had told him a few years ago that this was where his path would lead, he’d have laughed in their face and called them a nutter. 

But fate rarely led you in the direction you thought it would.

Almost a year before, a striking line like a bolt of electricity and dark as ink had appeared high on his left hip bone. 

When the unknown symbol had shown up on his skin out of nowhere, his first thought had been, ‘ _It just had to be a fucking lightning bolt. Because dealing with Potter for the better part of a decade wasn’t enough—I need another reminder on my skin.’_ He’d been angry and confused. It was another mark forced upon him without his permission, and frankly, he’d had enough of strange, black symbols on his body after the war.  
  
But it wasn’t every day that marks appeared on one’s skin without reason. He’d been curious, so he’d done everything he could at the time to figure out what it meant. 

He'd spent days in his family's spacious library, flipping through tome after tome for answers. His research turned up nothing, and no one he asked had ever heard of such a thing occurring. 

He refused to quit looking though, and with a bit more digging, he’d finally uncovered the truth in a dusty old journal that had belonged to some distant great-uncle on his mother's side. The pages spoke of his long-dead ancestor bargaining with a powerful spirit. He’d wanted to marry for love and not for influence and wealth. He had wanted nothing to do with being forced into an unhappy union, and in the beginning, his reasoning seemed genuine and pure enough, but, staying true to the roots of the crazy Black family, his ancestor had gotten greedy and tried to sneak his way out of upholding his end of the bargain. To the surprise of no one, the spirit became furious, cursing the foolish wizard with dark magic. 

According to the most recently-updated accounts, the curse had last touched their family with his grandfather. Why no one ever thought to tell him that he may be afflicted with a life-changing curse was beyond him.

A bit like a recessive gene, it didn't show up in every generation, requiring the right blend of core magic from a witch and a wizard. It manifested only in male offspring.

Because his selfish ancestor had been so desperate to not be bound to someone incompatible, the spirit had chosen a punishment befitting the crime. 

The curse forced two beings together, a wizard forever tied to one witch, somehow chosen by the whim of magic. When the wizard reached a certain age, the curse—woven through his very soul—was awakened. 

The diary called it a soulmate bond. 

A rune would appear on the wizard's skin, stuck there forever and reeking of dark magic. The symbol had a match, an exact replica etched into the skin of a witch, the wizard's supposed true mate. Once the mark came to life and found its partner, each person bearing it would find no pleasure with anyone else. Never would they know love with any another. There was no avoiding a soulmate bond—magical bonds on their own were difficult enough to break. This one wrapped itself around the couple’s magic, blood, and psyche—so, no, one could not ignore a soul bond.  
  
It didn’t mean he hadn’t tried, though. In fact, he’d tried _hard,_ desperately searching for months, hoping to find a loophole.

There were none.

The writings in the journal hadn't said how one would know who they were bonded with, only that they _would_ know, without a shadow of a doubt.

In late October of the previous year, Draco had been in one of those godforsaken lifts at the Ministry, having just come from a meeting with a liaison in the law department, a bi-monthly occurrence used to confirm that he was following the guidelines for his freedom after the war. 

Restlessly opening and closing his pocket watch, he'd been hoping he could keep his head down and get back to the main level without running into anyone. When the rickety old cage dinged and came to a screeching halt, he had cast a frustrated glare at the doors, silently wishing to hex whoever was invading the lift. 

Before the figure in question had cleared the door, a fiery sting lit up his left side. The pain was intense, forcing his body to slump against the wall of the lift. 

The witch who had entered had cried out, clutching her wrist, curling in on herself. Months later, he recalled having felt a sense of innate protectiveness when he’d seen her in pain. If he hadn’t been in a fog of agony himself, he was sure he would’ve been livid, intent on obliterating the source of her anguish. 

He’d immediately realized what the burning meant. He’d finally found her—his witch—and their marks had been burning in recognition.

At that moment, he’d felt an unexplainable kind of need—a craving—to see her, the one made for him. Draco had been sure he wouldn’t be able to continue breathing if he didn't catch a glimpse of her instantly. 

When she turned and met his eye, his stomach had dropped. 

Granger. 

Still in a shocked daze, his mind couldn’t help but repeat the same damning thought: _Hermione fucking Granger was his soulmate._

Of all the witches in the world, it had to be this one—the one he’d quarrelled with in his youth, the one he’d more than once wished was dead, and the one he’d watched be tortured on the floor of his family home—that he was linked to for all eternity. He supposed fate had a cruel sense of humour. 

In an attempt to right herself, she’d stumbled into the lift, and her head slammed into his chest. 

The pain died the moment they touched. To this day, Draco would still boast that that particular moment had been one of the greatest reliefs he’d ever felt in his life, though his mind at the time had protested.  
  
Once the anger had settled down, and after Granger had exhausted every resource she knew looking for a way out, they became begrudgingly resigned to their destiny and spent days getting to know one another. 

True to her nature, the know-it-all swot had been quick to point out the meaning of their matching runes.

 _Wholeness_.

What a fucking joke. He'd been whole enough on his own, thank you very much. But, thinking back, Draco realized that he hadn’t actually figured out the true meaning of being whole before Hermione Granger. 

Becoming reacquainted with her had been… interesting.

He’d learned so much about the woman she had become in the time since Hogwarts. He’d discovered that there was a lot about the witch that he had underestimated.  
  
She was brilliant, which he already knew. She was calculating; she could be cold as ice when she wanted. She was also vengeful—that was a bit of a surprise, but he should have suspected as much after her unfortunate encounter with Marietta Edgecombe in their fifth year.  
  
They had talked about everything—their lives, their family, and their hidden skeletons.  
  
She'd confessed to him one night that her parents never fully recovered from her protective obliviation of them, effectively leaving her an orphan. Wonder boy and the redhead, usually seen panting after her as she saved their arses yet again, had apparently done her enough wrong that she had no forgiveness left for them. 

He had listened, enraptured by her every word as she spoke about her ambition, her desires. She was tired of fixing everyone else's problems. She was sick of using her hard-earned knowledge and skills to help other people and never herself. 

He never would have guessed that the little bookworm would mature with a fire not to save the world but to own it.

She still had her morals. Her plans weren't to senselessly destroy people. _“Only the ones who deserve it,”_ she'd said.

He hadn't taken much convincing. Sure, he'd been staying on the up and up, following the rules. Of course, he was—he didn't fancy a one-way ticket to Azkaban—but since the war had ended, there had been a gnawing hunger inside him, quiet but insistent. He had a craving to fuck shit up—drawing blood and breaking bones—one he didn't know he had until he was no longer able to explore it.

Granger had it all planned out—who to target, who to blame, when to strike, and how to lay low.

With his mother dead and father rotting in prison, there was nothing tying him to the wizarding world. Taking up with Granger would give him an opportunity to free himself from the constraints of a polite society that he no longer fit into. 

So they began. She ran the ship; he fired the cannons and swabbed the deck. He was perfectly content to do her bidding as long as she stayed within reach. As their bond grew, he became utterly lost anytime she wasn't near him. He had these… compulsions, these stirrings in his gut that told him he wasn't complete without her and that keeping her happy, healthy, and protected was now his only job.

The violence soothed his soul. Taking out his repressed savagery on pompous, stupid wizards whose pockets grew fat through deceit—who stepped on the heads of anyone they could on their rise to the top—felt right. 

He knew it was a bit hypocritical considering he had come from a family who did just that. But he was not that person anymore. Hermione had changed him—no, not changed him. She'd shown him who he really was, and he would be forever grateful to her.

When each night ended and the blood on his hands washed out in the shower, he had no regrets.

She said he was the Clyde to her Bonnie, and he'd had no clue what that meant until she had forced him to watch a Muggle film on the fuzzy moving picture box in whatever dingy motel they had been hiding out in. 

He soon became more comfortable with Muggle contraptions and ideals.

Breaking someone's neck the old fashioned way was a lot harder to trace than magical means of violence. He grew to take pleasure in the _snick_ of his knife opening and in the sensation of the metal that looped around his knuckles connecting with a skull.

Blinking back memories of what had swiftly become the most interesting year of his life, he focused on Hermione lying beneath him, naked skin flushed, hair spread out in every direction, a siren beckoning him on. He could never resist her call.

* * *

Draco stepped into the chilly, dark streets of Genere Alley, clutching his black robes closer to his body. As usual, Granger walked a few steps ahead of him—not only so that he could get a few glances at her delectable arse, but also because she would be constantly nagging in his ear if he took the lead.  
  
Since the shape of her was covered by the frumpy cloak she'd chosen to wear tonight, he found himself walking behind her, utterly bored. He wished to examine her features closely, to keep memorizing her beauty until it was the only thing he knew. He wanted to see her. Always.  
  
The black cloak did no wonders to her allure at all, but it didn't dim her sparkle. The hood covered half her beautiful face—the shape of her forehead, the glimmer of her brown eyes, and the bridge of her nose remained unseen by those who’d dare to stare in front of her. At least he had convinced her to paint her uncovered lips a sinful shade of red. At least the curve of her chin and the soft details of her jaw were still visible—if he were only right in front of her.  
  
His fingers began to shake, not because of the cold air but because of the craving that was slowly eating at his mind. The dried and cracked skin on his lips felt almost sharp as he ran his tongue across them, attempting to resist the pull that was in his very essence.  
  
He needed to see how her face glowed under the moonlight, to drag his palm over her smooth skin, to lick that red paint off her lips, to get a sniff of citrus that permeated her being. He needed _her_.  
  
Tangling his convulsing fingers in his hair, Draco decided that he fucking hated that black cloak. He ached to feel her against him, but he knew the plan, and he knew that he needed to stick to it.  
  
They stayed to the shadows, blending in with the night, and as they turned a corner, Granger held up a hand to bring them to a stop.  
  
With silent movements, she indicated the location of tonight's target. 

He began his ascent up the fire escape, hands and feet charmed into silence lest the rattling of the old, rusty ladders wake up unsuspecting neighbours. Even wizarding neighbourhoods had rules about safety precautions.

Granger would come in from the front, holding a basket of baked goods, with glamours altering her features to appear as a cousin just come by for a friendly visit.  

Somehow, this always worked. What she held varied, but she'd stand there every time they pulled this kind of job, knocking on the front door of whatever unlucky place she had chosen as their mission, sweet as pie and just as unassuming.  
  
One thing that Draco had learned when they’d first begun doing this was that if you were pretty and appeared innocent enough, no one would bat a suspicious eye in your direction.

The thought always made him chuckle because he knew how far from innocent she actually was.

They had it down to a science. She gathered every bit of information they needed on their next victim, and she plotted a plan that ran flawlessly. He'd go in first, take out the target, sometimes in the quickest way and sometimes in the most gruesome way he could manage—depending on the day. 

Having reached the right window, he slipped his fingers into the gap between the frame and the sill made by weather-warped paint. The window slid up easily, a result of wizarding folk being stupid enough to think magic was all it took to prevent a break-in. Hermione had already disabled the laughably weak wards, so all he had to do was slide in feet first, heavy boots making no sound on the plush carpet. 

Seventeen steps forward and five to the left brought him directly in front of the door to the master bedroom. He jerked his head side to side, the bones in his neck cracking with a satisfying _pop_. The sound added to his anticipation. 

Goddamn, he loved this feeling.

* * *

When it was done and he had the body where he wanted it to be, the door opened, and his mastermind of a witch walked in. 

“Scared, Granger?” Draco smirked, watching as she grimaced at the sight on the floor.

She snorted, somehow still sounding feminine and delicate. “You know I don't like the mess.”

Yes, he knew. It didn't stop him from teasing her about it every chance he got, though. For someone who delighted in other people's pain, she sure disliked the ugly aftermath.

She stepped further into the flat, heading for the spare room that the former occupant had been using as a study. As she passed the crumpled figure on the floor without so much as a glance, she waved her hand, and the gore disappeared.

Her skills with wandless magic had increased in the last year. Her power was awe-inspiring and sometimes, he got hard thinking about it.

While she retrieved whatever it was they had come for, he planted the damning evidence—this time placing the blame on the surly young man who lived across the hall. As he adjusted the scene just so, Hermione emerged from the study, hips swaying with a little extra kick, holding their prize in her hands.

He wasn't sure if it had been the curse seeping into their skin or mutual curiosity, but soon after their bonding, they both developed a keen interest in the Dark Arts.

In a magically-extended trunk, his witch had a growing collection of both trinkets and valuables. Grimoires, family heirlooms, beautifully crafted sculptures created as an homage to the old gods, and leather-bound books filled with well-kept secrets were among some of their many treasures.

They made their way across the United Kingdom—and sometimes Europe—stealing ancient artifacts that sang with power from greedy wizards.

The more they collected, the stronger she grew. Her magical ability was astounding, and they spent days hiding out in hole-the-wall Travelodges, where Hermione taught him how to grow and control his magic. It was heady and addicting—both the power and the attention of his witch. _His Hermione._

* * *

Upon returning and washing up, Draco sat on the end of the squeaky bed, irritated by the sound and wishing he was instead sitting on the enormous bed in his recently-purchased flat in a posh part of Muggle London.  
  
It had taken a lot of convincing and a few well-timed seductions to bring Hermione around to the idea of them having a home base. She didn't like it, preferring the easy escape of hiding in rundown little places where no one knew their names. She'd finally agreed to let him purchase a place just for them as long as they took precautions, and she'd warded it from top to bottom, ensuring their anonymity.  
  
When the risk of being caught was high, she defaulted to having them stay in shitholes but knowing he had a lavish space to go home to when the job was done kept him satisfied. He still had a taste for the finer things in life, after all. 

Fidgeting a bit, attempting to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress, Draco took a moment to tune his violin. On edge and still wound up from the events of the evening, he twisted the tuning peg a bit too hard, watching as the string flew into the air. It stuck out at a ridiculous angle like a badly broken arm. 

“Fuck me.” He glared at the string as if doing so would scare it into submission and back into place.

“I was planning on it.”

His head flew up, eyes tracking the movement of the female figure in the doorway as she propped one hip against the dirty door jamb. His irritation melted into desire at the honey-drip sound of her voice. 

Bare feet with toes painted like shiny black cherries—a Muggle invention, this nail varnish, or so he’d been told—made no sound when Hermione slid from the door and came to a stop between his knees.

Gods, she was beautiful. She looked simultaneously like sin incarnate and an angel. Everything faded until all he could see was her—just right in every way.

He said nothing as he set his instrument aside to run his palms over her hips, up to the dip in her waist. Perfectly curved. She shivered at his touch. He knew just how to play her, when to pluck, where to caress.  
  
His favourite pastime—second only to losing himself in his music—was making her sing for him. Her cries were a symphony, reaching a beautiful crescendo when she lost control.

Though he despised his parents for a great many things, paying for expensive violin lessons was one thing he was grateful they had done. It had taught him to appreciate the beauty in the smallest of movements.

Even when he was high on bloodlust and adrenaline, his thoughts were never far from her.  
  
Fucking her felt like worship. 

She would sink to her knees at the hard-edged insistence of his fist in her hair, but he was the one at her feet. His hands would hold her down, but she reigned over him, body and soul.

She had burst into his life and blown open his mind.

Now, seeing her eyes drift shut as he tightened his fingers on her hips, he decided to take the opportunity to blow hers.

* * *

**P O S S E S S I O N**

_the state of **having** , **owning,** or **controlling** something_

* * *

By the open window of their bedroom, Hermione’s heart sat having just finished restringing his violin.  
  
Admittedly, when she’d awoken without his warm arms as a blanket over her cold figure, she'd been absolutely terrified. She’d thought that her nightmares had finally come true, that he’d finally escaped from the curse—from her—and that he’d left her without warning.  
  
Her panic subsided, though, when she heard the mournful strains of his violin. With unshed tears in her eyes, she pulled the silk sheets around herself and went searching for him.  
  
She found him sitting on their window seat, still naked, glorious, and beautiful. His chin rested on the violin, his fingers moving about the neck of the instrument as he manoeuvred the bow gracefully. His eyes were shut, and his body swayed to the melody he was playing. He hid his lower lip with his teeth, his eyebrows pinched together like they did whenever he was lost to the world.  
  
She clutched the sheets to her chest, feeling her heart beating in time with his. He played a song that she knew was a favourite of his, _None but the Lonely Heart_ —a melancholic, Romantic piece by Tchaikovsky—and she wondered if his heart still remained lonely when he was with her, when they were the closest they could be. She knew it mustn’t be true even as her heart broke at the mere thought of his dissatisfaction with her.  
  
She sniffled, warm tears rolling down her cheeks as they always did whenever he performed. He was playing the saddest music he knew, and she felt as though he was playing with her emotions too.  
  
She didn’t want to touch him in such a beautiful moment, but she also couldn’t help but feel envious of the beams of the moon and stars that kissed his pale skin. She couldn’t help the jealousy that plagued her when the soft whistles of the midnight wind threatened to create disorder out of his blond hair. The whole of the universe was undeserving of him. He belonged to only her, and only she was worthy of him.  
  
She watched as his fingers moved expertly on the strings of his beloved instrument. Only hours ago had those fingers been thrusting in and out of her, working to please her. Oh, how she longed to have those fingers on her body now.  
  
He released a contented sigh as he finished the song, a small smile resting on his lips. Hermione let out a breathy sob, marvelling at how absolutely beautiful he looked at the moment. Oftentimes, she had to question his devotion and existence. How lucky was she to have someone made entirely for her?  
  
His eyes opened instantly at the sound of her crying, his eyebrows raised as his gaze moved from the top of her head to her bare feet. When he’d completed his inspection and made sure she was unharmed, his expression softened. “You should be resting.”  
  
She wiped the tears off her cheeks with both hands, uncaring when the sheets dropped from around her. She would never let herself show this kind of vulnerability to anyone else. Only him. Only ever him.

“I can’t sleep without you beside me.”  
  
“I apologize, then.” He set the violin and bow on the window ledge, letting her know that all of his attention was now hers. As it should be.  
  
“I thought…” she hesitated, glancing away from his intense eyes. “I thought that  perhaps you’d abandoned me.”  
  
The way he brushed her words away with a chuckle terrified her. Truly. Didn't he understand how serious she was?

“I’m right here, pet.”  
  
“But you left me there, alone and cold,” she accused, her eyes narrowing into a glare.  
  
He was in front of her in a short second, a hand already raised to caress her hair. “I’ll never leave you.”  
  
His words made her breath catch. She spread her fingers over his shoulders, her knuckles turning white from the pressure as she repeated, “Never?”  
  
“Never,” he whispered, placing a comforting kiss on her forehead. “I’m yours, my love.”  
  
“Mine,” she breathed into his neck. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. “All mine.”  
  
And that was true; all of his masculine beauty and brilliance were hers alone.  
  
She tugged on his hair and pulled his head down until those decadent lips finally met hers. Kissing him was heaven. He tasted like something sacred and divine. If she were religious, she would've compared him to a god. There was no other explanation for how every praise he gave made her feel blessed or how every kiss from him felt like a baptism.  
  
She moaned when his fingers found and tweaked one of her nipples. She’d always had a certain fascination for his hands. Even back in school, she’d noticed how long and pale his fingers were, how gracefully they moved when he wrote Arithmancy notes. She never would have thought that the hands she had been so oddly fascinated by would be all hers one day.  
  
His lips moved to her collarbone where he sucked and nibbled every inch of skin he could find. His fingers danced down her side before grasping her thigh. She whimpered and shifted restlessly, aching to have those long, pale fingers right where they belonged—inside her.  
  
“Draco,” she begged. He had to know how wet she was for him already.  
  
But he did not touch her like she wanted him to. Instead, he swept her legs from beneath her to lay her upon the silky fabric that she’d dropped a few moments ago, positioning himself on top of her.  
  
She gasped when her thigh brushed against his erection, raising her hips to meet his, but she was thwarted when he moved his forearm to drape across her lower belly, halting her movement.  
  
“No,” he growled. A single word that she understood without context. Her whole body halted at his command, patiently waiting for the next one. She’d do anything he asked of her at the moment without regret. She’d never once regretted a thing since he’d come into her life. He was hers. He always took care of her.  
  
His tongue traced a path down her body, hands cupping and moulding to her curves. He re-traced all the marks he’d left on her earlier.  
  
She bit back a moan when his teeth pulled at her nipple, sucking on it gently before kissing across her chest to give the other equal attention. He moved lower, leaving a trail of love bites until he reached his destination.  
  
She held her breath as he lightly tapped his fingers on her mound. There was a burning in her belly. She needed him. Now. “Draco, please.”  
  
He dropped open-mouth kisses on each hip bone, licked up the crease of her thigh, so close and yet so damn far away.

He blew directly on her clit, and she trembled in response, his dark laugh vibrating through her bones. “You look good enough to eat, Hermione.”  
  
“Please!” she repeated, her thighs shaking in frustration.  
  
She jerked when he licked her at her centre, once, twice, before he pulled away. “You taste like tangerines, princess. Have I told you that?”  
  
He pursed his lips around her clit, flicking it a few times with his tongue as he slid a finger inside her, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh, God!”

Before she could savour the sensation, he stopped, looking up at her and demanding her attention, chin resting on her inner thigh.  
  
“Answer me.”

How he thought she could give coherent answers while he was doing that was beyond her but she gasped out, “Yes!”  
  
“Good girl,” he whispered, one corner of his mouth kicked up in sly amusement.  
  
“Oh fuck, Draco!” Her head thrashed uncontrollably as needy whimpers escaped her lips, curls sticking to the sweat on her forehead. She needed more. “Please!”

Withdrawing his fingers for a moment, his tongue found her entrance, teasing her, lapping up the proof of her arousal until she was gasping for air.  
  
With two fingers now, he slowly pumped in and out of her. She twisted his hair through her fingers in an attempt to fool herself into thinking that she had a semblance of control.  
  
The burning flames of pleasure grew, spreading across her entire body. She felt the fire as it threatened to explode and leave her in shambles. She was determined not to let the heat win, knowing that Draco wouldn't be pleased with her if she gave in too early. She felt on top of the world when she knew she had pleased him.  
  
And so she let him lap and lick at whatever part of her he desired. He'd get her right to the edge of the cliff then ease up before she could jump. Over and over again until finally, he said, “Now,” and she shattered.

Her whole world was white hot bliss for a few, sweet moments.

He let her ride it out, gentling his movements as she came down. Lifting his head, he smiled his slow feral smile, crawling up her body to nip at the tender skin of her throat, the evidence of her earth-shaking orgasm shiny on his chin.  
  
His hand slid down to cup between her thighs, and his touch sent shivers up her spine. He gathered her juices with his hand and brought it up to his lips, his tongue poking out for a taste.  
  
She watched with hooded eyes and a satisfied smile.

“Look at the mess you've made.” He brought his glistening fingers to her own mouth, rubbing over the pouty line of her lower lip. “Lick them clean.”  
  
She dutifully parted her lips for him before softly closing them on his fingers. She sucked her essence off his hand, her tongue greedy for more than his fingers when she finished.  
  
He grabbed her face afterwards, adoration all over his expression as he leaned down for a kiss, his moan vibrating across her lips.  
  
When they parted for a breath, she saw a promise in his haunting grey eyes—a promise of a long, sensual night filled with never-ending pleasure.  
  
She couldn’t wait.

* * *

Hermione remained seated, dabbing a handkerchief at the tears that had collected in her eyes as the audience around her clapped their hands together in a standing ovation after Draco had finished playing all four movements of _Devil’s Trill Sonata_ for them. _  
  
_Why these couples had chosen to spend excessive amounts of money for talented people to play certain musical pieces as a means of celebrating a mundane, unnecessary event Hermione would never know. She also didn’t understand the gratification Draco earned from the praises of strangers. Surely, the adoration she gave him was enough.  
  
He stood there on stage, a proud smile on his face, wearing a beautiful all white Muggle suit, his beloved instrument in one hand and his bow in the other.  
  
Hermione put on a small smile of her own as she began to clap her hands for him, thrilled at seeing him finish such a difficult piece; however, she wished they were alone and away from the wandering eyes of rich trophy wives.  
  
He’d been practising the song for ages, and he’d been outright ecstatic when he was asked to play for this luxurious Muggle theatre on Valentine’s Day. He’d been given free rein to choose whatever piece he wanted so long as it was from the Baroque era. Being the arrogant bastard he was, he’d picked a technically demanding Tartini composition. Though, she supposed she couldn’t call him arrogant now that he’d successfully done what he was only boasting about a few months ago.  
  
She'd asked him one night why he loved the sonata so much, and he’d claimed that it was because the trills and passages reminded him of the complications and beauties of her. Once she'd called him out on his bullshit, he’d jested that he hoped to summon the devil whilst playing it.  
  
Hermione entertained the idea for a few moments in her head, thinking of what she would do if she accidentally summoned an infernal being. First, she'd politely invite the demon for tea, of course, before she—  
  
Her sharp gaze caught the hand of the pianist clutching Draco’s shoulder, and her clapping halted instantly, her hands clenching into fists instead as she watched Draco smile a pretty smile for the pretty pianist girl. They casually conversed with each other, Draco’s smile never waning. At one point, the pianist even raised both of her arms and wrapped them around Draco’s body in a pathetic embrace.  
  
Hermione felt her nails creating dents in her palms as Draco— _her_ Draco, _her_ heart, _her_ wizard, _her_ bloody soulmate—hugged the girl back, his hand on her bare spine and lingering a little bit too long before he finally let go.  
  
She waited for him to glance at her with an apology in his eyes, to mouth the words ‘I’m sorry,’ but he never did. He left the stage without even looking at her.  
  
A horrifying chill went down her spine, cold and uninvited. What if Draco didn’t want her anymore? What if he now fancied the pianist he’d spent time practising with more than he’d ever cared for her? What if he was thinking of replacing her with a better, prettier, and more talented woman? What if he didn’t think she was worthy enough of him because she knew nothing about playing music? What if he’d actually always wanted a girl who could play the piano? What if—  
  
_That stupid, ugly bint,_ she silently fumed, her glaring eyes never leaving the pianist still on stage. She had blonde hair, almost a perfect match to Draco’s shade. She wore a backless dress that Hermione would have thought looked good on her if she hadn’t touched her man.  
  
Blinding paranoia and red-hot rage seeped into her blood, her chest constricting, her heart bursting into furious flames, and her magic simmering beneath the surface. Draco was _hers_ to embrace. His arms were made to wrap around _her_ body. He was made for her, and she for him. He was hers.  
  
When she saw a spark of her magic out of the corner of her eye zapping an old woman’s greying hair and singeing the tips, Hermione willed herself to calm down. It wouldn’t do well for anyone if she let her magic loose like an untrained child. She fixed her posture, wiped the surely obvious angry expression off her face, and continued to watch on, her eyes never moving away from the girl. _The fucking pianist girl.  
_  
She grinned when the girl’s eyes met hers, a plan beginning to unfurl itself in her head.  
  
Hermione always had a knife hidden somewhere on her body, usually strapped to her calf. One never knew when they’d need a weapon, after all, and it was good to be ready for anything that could potentially happen.

It was such a pity that she was wearing a white gown tonight.

* * *

The pianist was dead.

Hermione smiled as she repeated the thought over and over in her head.  
  
The pianist was dead. The pianist was dead. The pianist was dead. _Thank God._  
  
Shivering at the satisfaction that ran through her bones, she took a moment to admire her work. She had known she couldn’t do it without a drink in hand, so she had poured herself some centuries-old wine that Draco was saving for some so-called ‘special occasion.’ Today was the special occasion he was waiting for, in her opinion.  
  
She sat on the plush sofa, crossing her legs at the ankles and taking a decent sip from her glass. She sat straight, of course, examining the corpse that had been so alive on the same carpet only a few minutes ago.  
  
Without hesitation, Hermione could now admit that the girl—lying on her own remains—was utterly gorgeous.  
  
If this were like any other mission she'd done with Draco, Hermione would’ve been disgusted at the mess, but now, she was rather proud of her masterpiece.  
  
The blood, Hermione’s favourite shade of red, eased against the girl’s pale skin like waves crashing against sandy shores. The girl’s pretty blonde hair had been completely washed scarlet—in remembrance of her dear old friend, Ronald Weasley. The bruises on the girl’s neck shone like jewellery from a luxurious brand. She looked like a perfect princess.  
  
She took another sip, humming at the feel of the alcohol down her throat mixing with the rush her impromptu mission had left her with.  
  
Hermione had carved _SLAG_ on the girl’s exposed back, right where she remembered Draco’s hand had touched. She admitted that it was poorly-done calligraphy, but it was the best she could do with an improvised blade.  
  
When she'd gone home with the almost-dead, unconscious, and miraculously-alive girl, she'd gotten a real weapon out of Draco's stash and sliced the pianist’s fingers off one-by-one, ensuring she would never touch Draco again. The little tart would never play any instrument again—not even in the afterlife.  
  
She swallowed more of the wine, startling when the entrance to the flat suddenly opened. Her heartbeat sped up as her wizard’s handsome form entered, finally home from the after-party the theatre had hosted.  
  
He gently closed the door, narrowing his eyes at the body on the carpet.  
  
After a ridiculously long amount of time spent studying the corpse, Draco asked his first question of the night: “Is she dead?”  
  
Hermione couldn’t suppress the giggle that escaped her. “I think so, yes.”  
  
“You’ve made quite a mess,” he pointed out, his gaze still focused on the corpse. “Who was this?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, finishing the drink she still held in her hand. “Guess.”  
  
“I don’t want to guess,” he said, the rumble in his chest sending quivers to her core. Merlin, how she loved when he spoke to her like that. “I want you to tell me, Hermione. Right now.”  
  
Her response came quickly after his demand. “The pianist.”  
  
“The pianist?” he repeated, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Yes,” she hissed, gripping the stem of her glass a tad too tightly. “The pianist with whom you shared an intimate embrace after your solo performance.”  
  
His head finally turned towards her. He had an incredulous expression on his face. What for, she wondered? Wasn't it clear? 

“Intimate embrace.”  
  
It wasn’t an inquiry, but she nodded anyway, still fuming at the memory. “Didn’t think I would see that? Well, I did, and you’re not even sorry.”  
  
His gaze turned dark and scary hot, but he spoke with sincerity, “I am sorry.”  
  
Shrugging his words off, Hermione looked away from him. “She’s dead now.”

“This is why you left the party early? Why you disappeared without telling me where the fuck you went?”

She said nothing, keeping her gaze anywhere but him, unwilling to let him force her into defending herself.  
  
They stared at the corpse in silence for a while, and for the first time that evening, Hermione was disgusted at the sight. When she raised a hand to clean the mess, though, Draco stopped her.  
  
“Don’t,” he said.  
  
“Why?” she asked. “It’s so messy.”  
  
“It is.” Agreeing with her, Draco nodded. “You’ve ruined your dress as well.”  
  
She glanced down, grimacing at the ivory lace of her gown now stained a muddy red. “I suppose I should’ve changed—”  
  
“I bought you that dress.” Draco’s stormy eyes narrowed into a glare, his lips set into a firm line. “And you’re drinking my bottle, aren’t you? The one from the Manor?”  
  
Throat suddenly dry, she swallowed, choosing to only nod in response.  
  
“And that rug you’ve dirtied up is mine, too.” Draco carefully set his violin case down on the nearest table before slowly approaching her. “In fact, I only bought it last week. Do you have so little regard for my things, Hermione?”  
  
She whimpered when he yanked her to her feet, angling his head down until his lips were just a few centimetres away from hers, sparking desire in her abdomen.  
  
He placed both of his hands on her neck, caressing her throat with his thumbs before leaning in for a short kiss. “Answer me.”  
  
Without conscious thought, Hermione’s face followed his, silently asking for more kisses. She woke up from her daze when Draco tightened his hold on her neck.  
  
“Answer me,” he calmly repeated as his palm pushed against her throat. “Did you not like the frock I bought you, Hermione? When I said that I wanted to save that particular wine for a special occasion, did my words mean nothing to you? Did you hate the carpet so much that you decided to taint it with that fucking Muggle’s blood?”  
  
“N-no,” she breathed, amazed at the fact that she was still able to do so. “I… I love the gown. And you—your words mean everything to me, Draco. I love the carpet and the gown—I love you.”  
  
Her confession made both of them pause. Draco’s hands on her neck loosened, his eyes widening in shock, and she held her breath, awaiting his reply. Though they often vocalized their desire for each other, those were three words neither of them had ever uttered.  
  
After what felt like hours of simply blinking at each other, Draco shut his eyes, let out an almost pained sound, and claimed her lips. His hands raised to cup her cheeks while he punished her mouth, nipping and licking and sucking.  
  
“Fuck,” he muttered after he’d wrenched himself away from her, turning her body around so that his chest brushed against her back. He took the hem of her dress in a fist and bunched it up on her hips, grinding against her. The rich, smooth material of his trousers was delicious against her skin.  
  
She moaned, a wanton and desperate sound, holding onto the sofa, already aching to have him inside her.  
  
Thankfully, Draco felt the same way and briskly pulled down her knickers, hands stopping at her arse, roughly kneading the flesh before his fingers moved to her entrance. He rubbed her clit for a few moments while pushing his fingers in and out, ensuring that she was truly ready for him.  
  
She heard some fumbling from behind her, clothing rustling and then—  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Hermione groaned as he finally filled her.  
  
Draco took some of the skin on her neck in between his teeth, pulling and sucking as he settled on a rapid rhythm. He fucked her like he meant to hurt her, and that’s exactly what she wanted at that moment. She wanted to forget about anyone else’s hands on him and know without a doubt that only _she_ drove him to this state. It was _her_ who made him so crazy that he needed her as much as he needed his next breath. He needed _her_ so much that he had to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture, not caring she was splattered with blood.

It was primal and visceral and _perfect._  
  
Hands scrabbling at the cushions, she dug her fingers in, attempting to keep herself from being pushed too far forward over the back of the sofa from the force of his thrusts. Neither of them said a word for several minutes, the sound of skin against skin like music to her ears. She had no sense of time, lost in the sensations overwhelming her senses. At some point, his hand slipped back down her front, strumming his fingers over her sweet spot. Arching her back so hard it hurt, Hermione fell apart, spasming and crying out as her orgasm washed over her.  
  
After a few more thrusts, Draco came undone behind her, holding her tightly in place, forehead pressed to her shoulder blade until he was spent.  
  
When he recovered, Draco wrapped his arms around her chest. His lips trailed along her jaw, his touch now soft and gentle in the wake of their explosive coupling.  
  
“I love you too,” he murmured against her skin when her eyes were closed and she was half-asleep. She smiled—smug and pleased—when he added, “more than anything else in the world.”  
  
She couldn’t let him get away with thinking that she hadn’t heard him though, so she mumbled, “Happy Valentine’s, Draco,” before giving in to her exhaustion, slipping into sweet oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> We'd like to thank the admins of the Facebook group, Dramione Fanfiction Writers, for hosting such a wonderful fest! Y'all are amazing! Keep doing what you guys do. 
> 
> Be sure to check out the other entries from this fest <3
> 
> Kudos & comments are highly appreciated!


End file.
